Tick Tock
by SneakAttack29
Summary: When an abandoned government lab that should not exist, a missing bioengineer, and a potential bioweapon leave Sherlock Holmes, DI Lestrade, Sergeant Donovan, and Professor Elisabeth Kardon under quarantine, they must embark on a deadly race to solve the mystery and prevent what has the potential to be the most devastating terror attack since 9/11, all before time runs out.
1. Secret and Mystery

_**Tick Tock**_  
 _ **By:**_ SneakAttack29

* * *

 _ **Quick Author's Note:**_ Hello all! This is my first foray into a Sherlock fanfiction, so bear with me and please tell me if I get someone out of character. I'm trying. It's a learning process.

Also, if I screw up on the labratory, scienc-y stuff that's going to be a major part of this story, please also tell me and correct me where applicable. I, myself, research bioterror response, but from a criminological standpoint. I do what I can to get a grasp on the biological side of things, but I may screw up. Also I may screw up on some of the technical aspects. I'm tring to get the information as true as I can.

So this story takes an OC I'm using in a sandbox-y Dragon Age fic (posted on AO3 like this also will be-same username!) that I thought would work really well in the Sherlock-verse. So I did it. This is going to be a back burner story updated when I have time. I'm currently working an internship and a part-time job, so no promises on when I'm going to have time to write. But I will try. This takes place after the conclusion of season 4 of Sherlock, also!

Anyway, I'm gonna let you guys jump right in. Enjoy!

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Sherlock. All rights go to their respective peoples. I only own the OCs that will crop up during this fanfic.

* * *

 _ **Chapter 1:**_ _Secret and Mystery_

* * *

" _A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other._ "

-Charles Dickens, _A Tale of Two Cities_

* * *

 **The woman blows a huff of air** from her lips in frustration, tossing the glossy photograph she'd been looking at face down in the open file before her. Her arms cross over a smart button down, hands ripping thin, wire-frame reading glasses off her face. Flat, almond-shaped eyes peer cautiously up at the greying man leaning against the edge of her desk. They ask, _plead_ , an unspoken question. One she voices anyway. "Greg, what in the bloody _hell_ are you expecting me to be able to find?" Her accent is American, tinged with a British lilt that only comes from years living away from her nation of origin.

The man, Greg, runs a hand through his already-disheveled hair. It's an action clearly done multiple times in recent moments, and the drawn look to his face gives a reliable indication of the amount of stress he finds himself under. It's not too much of a shock, the woman thinks. Working for Scotland Yard can't be in any way relaxing. "God help me, Elisabeth, I don't know. I want your eyes on this. Please."

She frowns, pulling the earpiece of her glasses she'd been chewing on out of her mouth to point it at him. "You have a consultant already. He'd be much better suited for this—why don't you ask him?"

"Because I need _your_ expertise." The woman's eyes narrow, scanning along his haggard face. She finds what she's looking for and raises a brow incredulously.

The glasses are moved to point at the facedown photograph. "You showed me a picture of a figurine on a table, Lestrade, and a standard employee ID photo of a missing engineer. All _I'm_ getting out of it is that your kidnapper likes sculptures and your Missing could stand to wash his face a little more. Hardly gospel words of insight."

Lestrade's grimace twists to look almost _pained_. "It's more than that. Please, Elisabeth, I'm begging you here." Her dark eyes go comically wide as she begins slowly swirling herself left and right in her office chair. The glasses find their way to rest on her lips again, though instead of beginning to chew on the well-gnawed plastic covering, her face bears the faintest whisper of a grin.

"What's this now? The great Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, begging little ole' me to consult on a case for New Scotland Yard? Never thought this day would come. Are you feverish? You _do_ look a little pale, come to think of it…"

"Oh, for God's sake," he groans, throwing his head back in exasperation that only makes the woman spinning in her chair grin more. Her chuckle is low, albeit forced as she leans forward to flip the photograph over again and rearrange it in the file folder.

Not making eye contact as she shuffles papers back to some semblance of order, she nonchalantly chides, "If you're worried about one of my students barging in and hearing something oh-so-top-secret, don't. I'm on lunch break, technically. But whatever it is you're not telling me, just spit out that you can't instead of trying to string me along by begging. Really, Greg, it's beneath you." He whips his head around to her, staring for a few beats before rolling his eyes. She thinks she hears something muttered along the lines of "not that bloody transparent" before he's uncrossing his arms and turning to face her properly.

"Right, fine. This case is weird. I _do_ need you to consult. But you were…asked for. By name. Wasn't supposed to tell you, so if you could conveniently pretend _not_ to know that information…"

Her brow rises again. "By name? By _whom_?" A hand curls up from where her elbows are resting on the varnished oak desktop to fold over her mouth. The grim look that passes over Lestrade's face does her nerves no favors, nor her damnable curiosity.

"I can't say, Elisabeth. I'm sorry, but I can't. I've said too much as it is."

"Hmm. Why me? I'm no one…oh." Her eyes brighten a little with realization, puzzle pieces clicking along with the gears in her mind as she leans back again in her chair. "He went missing three hours ago, yeah? Called in shortly after? How many of your people have you had parading through the lab? Have they touched anything?"

His brow furrows. "Only the photographer from forensics and a team to look for prints on the figurine. Everything was photographed as-was before and put back as it was found after. Wait, why'd you say it's a lab? That's not in the report I gave you."

"Figurine's on a shiny, unmarred metal table. Your Dr. Logan Northcott either has a strange choice in workbenches or he's working in a lab. I can practically _smell_ disinfectant through the image."

"Right," Lestrade drawls. "' _Only that he likes sculptures and a face that needs washing'_ , my arse." Elisabeth only shrugs.

Flipping the file closed, she stands suddenly and reaches for the coat slung over the coatrack in the corner. It makes her message clear, even as she speaks. "It'd be rude to deny such a candid invitation. Can you give me more details here, or am I going to have to wait?"

"Wait," he grumbles, leading the woman outside her small, monotone office and waiting awkwardly in the narrow hallway for her to lock it up behind her. He glances only briefly at the plaque reading _Dr. Elisabeth Kardon—Criminology_ in stark, blocky lettering. It's a lot like the woman herself—short, sweet, and to the point. "Be easier to explain when we get there. It's not far. Sorry about the cloak and dagger, by the way. Not my idea."

Her brow rises as she stuffs the keys and her glasses into the pocket of her coat. "It's fine. Still don't know how much help I'm really going to be, though."

"Yeah," he sighs, leading the way out of the building. "Believe me, this is better than the alternative."

The last part is grumbled, obviously something she isn't meant to hear. Elisabeth eyes her friend warily, not sure what to make of the situation and a feeling in her gut telling her that perhaps the answer isn't something she wants to know.

* * *

 _ **Day 1—14:49**_

* * *

" **What do you** _ **mean**_ **'** _ **He's not here**_ **'?"** a tall, dark-haired man clad in a rather impressive coat questions irritably. The shorter man next to him has his brows to his greying blond hairline, watching the exchange between his companion and the annoyed-looking woman across the thin barrier of police tape as if viewing a tennis match. The woman is holding her ground better than most, though the expression of utter distaste that comes over her features probably contributes to her stalwart hostility a considerable amount.

"I mean that he's not bloody here," she grumbles, crossing her arms firmly over her chest. Behind her mills a team of police officers and forensic workers, though there notably isn't anyone entering or exiting the cordoned-off building curiously situated in the middle of nowhere. It is a fact that the taller man is quick to take note of if the glimmer of amusement entering his pale eyes is anything to go by. "You weren't called in, and Lestrade's not here to give you permission to enter the crime scene."

Her verbal adversary scoffs. " _Permission_." The word is spat as if containing some corrosive poison. "Please, _Sally_ , you lot need my help, permission or not. The sooner you get that through your thick little skulls, the quicker we can cease this pointless routine."

Her eye twitches. "We can handle this, _Freak_. We don't need your bloody _help_."

"Oh, _obviously_ ," sneers the man in an instant and well-practiced retaliation, not missing a beat. Within the pockets of his coat, unbeknownst to Sally or his companion, his hands clench into fists. "That's why no one is daring to stand close to the door. I see the Yard's degraded to the point they're not even trying to do their jobs. Yes, you're _handling_ things marvelously."

This incenses her, and her jaw drops in offense; however, a police car pulling up to the scene cuts off whatever else she was going to say. A backwards glance at the vehicle conversely causes the taller man to smirk and the shorter to roll his eyes.

"Ah, impeccable timing," he utters gleefully as the very same Detective Inspector he had been asking after exits the driver's side, but the grin falters when the passenger door cracks open as well. An unfamiliar woman emerging from the car's depths is obviously an addition neither he nor the other two individuals clustered around the police tape are expecting, and his sharp eyes quickly rove across her slight frame in a harsh scrutiny. She's dressed professionally under a classic trench coat that's partially buttoned and tied shut, heels clicking smartly yet awkwardly on uneven pavement, notably lacking any kind of purse or handbag in favor of her coat pockets appearing laden with the bare essentials. Short black hair beginning to show sparkles of silver, strongly Asian in features, stern-faced if not a bit confused. Uncomfortable with the situation but not with Lestrade, so she knows him at least a bit. The man narrows his eyes as the two near, not entirely dismissing her as too boring to be worth his time only because her presence is far left of field. She's honestly rather unremarkable aside from the unknown.

Lestrade mumbles a curse upon seeing him that makes the woman shoot the detective a look of amusement. "Should have figured you'd sniff this one out."

"I daresay you were a bit ambitious to try keeping something so delightfully interesting from me." His flash of a smile is sardonic and sarcastic, causing the out-of-place tag along to snort a laugh. The smile, like his grin moments before, drops quickly, and his eyes fixate on her curiously again. He doesn't comment otherwise. She's plain and almost uniform enough to be a bit more challenging to read, not that he'd ever admit such out loud, and he would rather arm himself with more deductions before tackling the proverbial beast.

The curly-haired woman behind the tape has no such reservation, though he can't help the wrinkle in his nose at the utter lack of eloquence her blunt question carries. "Who's she?" This causes the she in reference to stand straighter, defiant of the strangely accusatory tone. Her nod to those gathered is delivered stiffly yet politely.

"Elisabeth Kardon. Greg invited me. Pleasure to meet you." _American_ is tacked on to the running list of facts the tallest individual has gathered, right alongside the realization that she's been in country for at least ten or so years if the dilution of her accent is anything worthy of note. Mother's side from east Asia with her father's side probably of Jewish descent, maybe Ukrainian from the surname—either that or she was adopted, but he suspects that to be the less likely of the two. Odds are in favor of New England by the heavy concentration of Jewish ancestry in the region, but it's also possible she's from elsewhere in the States. And, perhaps most importantly, she has some skill or knowledge to warrant being brought in on a case _instead of him_. _That's_ what snags his attention—and hint of ire—the most.

"You have another consultant?" the one in the coat snaps irritably. The other man, essentially ignored at this point, shoots him a warning look. " _Sherlock_."

It's useless as his glare does not lessen. Elisabeth's lips stretch into a tight smile, dark eyes going hard despite having expected such a reaction immediately upon seeing the rather infamous consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes' reputation far precedes him, as well as that of Dr. John Watson beside him.

"Special case," Lestrade snaps back just as fiercely, motioning for Sally to lift the tape and allow himself and Elisabeth through. Sherlock attempts to follow but is cut off in short order by the Yard detective whirling on him. They make eye contact, wordlessly counting some sort of argument before the older man sighs heavily.

"Oh, for—fine. They're clear, Donovan."

"But I thought…," Donovan trails off, shifting her gaze between her boss and Elisabeth with a hint of suspicion, though of what is unclear. Said boss pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Sergeant." The title is muttered in a tone Sally Donovan knows well, and her face sours as she harshly waves the smug consulting detective and his partner through the tape. Elisabeth, trying to diffuse some of the tension among the group, quirks her lips in an awkward show of greeting. Dr. Watson, at least, returns the gesture.

Her stride quickens to keep up with the taller men hastily making their way towards the building everyone else is avoiding like the plague. "Alright, I'll go ahead and say what everyone's thinking—why are we in the middle of nowhere, what kind of facility is this, and why does it look like you're completely prohibiting access to the entire building? Also, did you get any prints from that figurine in the pictures you showed me? I have a rough idea, but if you could clarify before I go assuming anything, that would be _phenomenal_."

"You showed her pictures?" Sherlock presses but is, to his chagrin, summarily ignored.

"One at a time, Elisabeth." Lestrade pauses outside the door to speak with the woman properly, and the consulting detective and doctor also pause to listen to the conversation. "We were told to keep access to the building at a minimum, but don't ask me why. When I said this is weird, I meant it."

Dr. Watson states, "This looks military." Sherlock glances at it again and has to agree.

"I'll reiterate Miss Kardon's question: What kind of facility is this?" he tacks on quickly before he can fall too much to the wayside. Lestrade's face somehow becomes even terser if that's possible as he yanks the heavy metal door open on rusted hinges to usher everyone quickly down winding, cinderblock hallways lit with too-bright, sterile fluorescent fixtures. "Military building, far past London outskirts and back from traffic, secure, and you're not letting anyone in. Why? Could be a clearance issue, but that's doubtful—need to let the police in to do their jobs, however dreadful they are at it. Oh, don't look at me like that, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't true. You sent a few people in for only enough barebones information to convince _her_ to tag along, though why you called her in at all is a whole other question entirely. Now, why would you cut off access if it isn't a clearance issue? Answer: There's something in this building you _really_ don't want to get out. Something _dangerous_."

Shooting him an annoyed look, the older detective does not respond, taking yet another few turns down a deserted corridor. Elisabeth, however, whistles lowly. "I'd heard about what you do, Mr. Holmes, but damn if that's not impressive to see in person." Sherlock turns to look at the woman walking slightly behind himself and John, and his face falls completely blank. Dr. Watson is smirking a little as he reaches to pat her shoulder companionably.

"Careful Miss Kardon, or you'll break him."

"I'll not _break_ ," Sherlock is quick to sneer at his assistant. "I'm simply amazed that there's another _you_ running around." Lestrade scoffs, obviously understanding the joke, while the shortest member of their little group is left in a state of befuddlement.

She smiles small, but it's laced purely with confusion. "I-I'm sorry, but it appears I'm missing something?"

John chuckles. "Let's just say that's not the response he normally gets." Elisabeth's mouth opens a moment, but she apparently rethinks whatever she intends to say with a quick shake of her head.

"Never mind, I don't want to know."

"If I _might_ get this back on track," Lestrade cuts in sharply. Before he can continue, however, a phone begins ringing climactically, and Dr. Watson's face turns sheepish as he digs a mobile phone from his jacket, apologizing under his breath.

A glance at the caller ID has his brow furrowing. "Sorry, sorry. It's Mrs. Hudson. She's with—I really ought to take this."

"Oh, dull," mumbles the consulting detective with a roll of his eyes. John shoots him a _look_. Elisabeth has no other name for it. It's just a _look_.

"I'll only be a moment. You all go on without me—I'll catch up."

Lestrade nods in understanding before Sherlock can say anything else. "That's fine. Take your time." Her fellow consultant, to Elisabeth's bafflement, appears to slump in an annoyed manner she can only describe as a _sulk_.

With a reciprocating nod of gratitude, John darts back around the corner the way they came, beginning to press his phone to his ear and brushing past a frazzled looking Sergeant Donovan. Elisabeth catches the twitch of Sherlock's jaw tensing when he sees the woman with the radio clutched in her hand. The bad blood there is rather simmering, she realizes with a raised brow.

"Sir," Donovan says briskly, elaborating on her presence in the out-of-bounds building before anyone can get a chance to ask her. "Chief Superintendent radioed— _wants a word_." A significant glance is shot to Elisabeth before flicking back to the Yard detective, something the woman notes with a furrowed brow and concerned frown. The sudden chill of unease causes her to fold in on herself with a concealed shiver.

Lestrade cringes, barely noticeable. Donovan begins walking to keep up with the mobile-again group, apparently quite dogged in her message-delivering. "Ah, right. I'll deal with that in a moment." They pass through a set of automatic glass doors and into what Elisabeth notes suspiciously is practically a wall of industrial disinfectant. Also suspicious, she notes the taped up window to the right of the door as they entered. As the glass hisses shut behind them and Lestrade begins to pass out nitrile gloves, a rock of ice begins to settle in the pit of her stomach. Sherlock, contrary to the woman's growing unease, gains a Cheshire grin.

"Ooh, in a spot of trouble, are you?" His pressing is ignored, again to his displeasure.

Donovan frowns, continuing as though uninterrupted. "She said immediately. Didn't sound happy."

"Immediately _in a moment_ , yes." He motions the rest of the way into the linoleum-tiled room. "This is more pressing. I doubt waiting a few more minutes will give her an aneurism. Besides, there's no signal in here. Concrete walls and all that. Now whatever you lot do despite the gloves, _do not touch anything_." Lestrade's hands slide casually into his pockets after a glare at the consulting detective, a move Elisabeth notes with a frown. Sherlock has already darted off to begin inspecting the figurine on the round metal table in the middle of a room decked out in enough tech to make anyone involved in a scientific field drool. This causes the woman's frown to deepen for an entirely different reason than it manifested. Computers, industrial counters, several different types of equipment that she can't put names to but look _extremely_ expensive—it's spread around the pristine space in a neat and orderly manner. It all reeks of disinfectant. Too much so.

A door in the back leads to another room, though it's difficult to tell what lay beyond from the way it's darkened past the clear Plexiglas. Elisabeth gets a daunting feeling she doesn't need to be told to figure it out if the line of lumpy, shapeless blue suits hanging on pegs next to it are speaking as plainly as she believes. As she stops short of getting any closer to the table, the gears begin whirring.

"Miss Kardon said you looked for prints on this. However, you didn't—"

"Bioengineer," Elisabeth blurts suddenly, cutting the consulting detective off and drawing all eyes to her. She whirls sharply to look at Lestrade now standing off to the side with Donovan. "I was right. The man who was taken, Dr. Northcott. He wasn't just an engineer like you told me. He was a _bio_ engineer."

Sherlock huffs. "So, this is a missing person, then. Just as I thought. What was he working on? Must be dangerous to keep everyone out. This is a military facility to boot—insignia on the glass there proves it…"

He and Elisabeth share a glance. A lot is communicated in that look, but mostly it is an agreement for a temporary alliance to press for the shady answers Lestrade is not providing them. Answers they need. A mutual truce forms between strangers each still uneasy around the other.

Elisabeth grits through her teeth, "Please tell me he wasn't developing a bioweapon?" She already knows the answer. Asking is redundant, but the hope of a different answer than the one she is expecting is more tempting an offer than she'd like to admit.

The Yard detective, to his credit, looks a bit strained. He peers to the Sergeant next to him with apprehension. She looks back with slightly wide eyes. The conversation is beyond her pay grade, they both know it, but he gives in with a sigh.

"We think so."

"You _think so_?" Sherlock asks incredulously. "That's not a difficult thing to figure out. You lot aren't _that_ daft."

"It's not that simple, Sherlock. This facility doesn't exist. It's a ghost. The victim works at a university lab in bloody Leicester, but his supposed colleagues have never heard of him before. We're working on getting information, but until we know what this lab was working on, we're fumbling in the dark. It's a risk to even be in here, but I'm goddamn desperate."

Elisabeth's jaw drops. "You dragged me out of my office to shove me in a secret government ghost lab that may or may not be housing biological contagions?! _Greg_! At least tell me that this _isn't_ the hot lab!" She knows it isn't, but angrily putting the detective on the spot eases her nerves a tad bit.

Lestrade waves a hand. "It's not. The lab itself is clean—we did a sweep. It's the samples and whatnot that we're concerned about. Until we know what they were doing here, I'm not letting anyone touch them."

"You mean like you let them touch this setup on the table?" snarks the consulting detective, drawing attention back to himself while simultaneously pointing it dramatically to the figurine. "Someone took something. Whoever left this little message placed the statuette slightly off center but left the rest of the room impeccable. There were two things set here; your perpetrator is too OCD to be so meticulous with the equipment yet be sloppy with the centerpiece of the show. Where's the second object? Would it have anything to do with why you brought Miss Kardon?"

The woman in question chimes in before Lestrade can do it for her. She motions with jerky, sudden movements to the door in the back of the room, glower fixed to her face. "And is there a goddamn reason you didn't sweep the hot lab? Biohazard equipment wouldn't be too hard to get. If this is a military facility, there has to be a coordinator to even let you in, ghost lab or not."

Lestrade's jaw clenches. "No, it was abandoned when we got the call. Anonymous hang-up. Came in yesterday, but no one thought a thing of it. Put it on a back burner until there was time. We're still waiting on equipment before we crack that can of worms." He motions as well to the door to what Elisabeth is now positive _is_ , indeed, the hot lab. Cold labs like the one they find themselves in are typically sterile and typically safe enough. As annoyed as she is at him currently, Elisabeth _does_ trust that the cold lab was swept and given a seal of approval for entry. Otherwise, Lestrade wouldn't have even let them in the building. It's the hot lab that could potentially (Elisabeth would actually argue _probably_ ) contain something particularly nasty, whatever project was being worked on.

But still…

"Something forced everyone out, then." She hisses, running a hand through her hair. "A lab like this wouldn't just be abandoned—it's clearly recently cleaned, at least. Which probably means recently used. All this tech, too, wouldn't just be left behind unless they had to leave in a hurry. This is a large facility. It would take more than one bioengineer to staff it, so there had to be other people here. Are you _sure_ the rest of the building is clean? Was it sealed up when you got here? Are there any other projects, any other active labs? An anonymous call is bloody suspicious. How do you know that wasn't a _goddamn lure_?" The more questions Elisabeth asks, the louder and more furious her voice becomes. If looks could kill, Lestrade would be several feet under and a rather meek pincushion for some surely painful daggers.

The detective opened his mouth to reply. "Ellie—"

" _Don't fucking call me that_." The glare becomes harsher, and more daggers are proverbially added. "Let me guess, hmm? Building was unsecured and abandoned upon response, then checked once backup and a biohazard crew arrived. No one would be allowed in right now if that was the case given the timeframe—three hours, you said in my office? Barely enough time for a thorough sweep, so obviously nothing major was found. You lied about not having the equipment to check the hot lab—of course you would have had a biohazard crew immediately to make sure the building was even safe for entry and determine whether anything had been released from the building. They could have checked it. Either they did and you're lying about it, or you _told_ them not to. I'm leaning towards the first option, your tells aren't that hard to figure and you practically screamed it when you said that it hadn't been swept. There's no way you would have been able to get away with not having it checked, unless that's what the Chief Superintendent is being so dogged to talk to you about. Though I don't think so. It _is_ a bioweapon. My expertise is in bioterror response, I'm not stupid enough to fail to put that together. You wouldn't have brought me in for anything else. What was in that hot lab you don't want us to know about?"

"Yes, I quite agree." Sherlock looks to her, something akin to developing respect showing on his face. "Astute deductions, Miss Kardon."

"Thank you," she says crisply and quickly, though she notably doesn't take her eyes off a now very uncomfortable-looking Lestrade. "Coming from you, I understand that to be high praise."

After a few moments of silent, droll scrutiny, the Yard detective heaves a bone-weary sigh. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out an evidence bag. Elisabeth can't make out what it contains until it's handed to her hesitantly.

"A piece of paper?"

Greg scrubs his hands down his face, mumbling, "Flip it over." Sherlock by now has moseyed his way to peer over the woman's shoulder. Not a difficult feat from the severe height difference.

Still, the woman does so and almost drops the bag in the process. Printed on the jagged, ripped slip of paper in a bold, capitalized typeset are two sentences. "What the hell?!" Her head shoots up to meet Lestrade's gaze while the consulting detective behind her gains an almost childishly gleeful look at the turn of events this has become.

 _I DO THIS FOR HER._

 _SHALL WE PLAY, PROFESSOR KARDON?_

"By name, Ellie."

" _Don't call me that_ ," she hisses, ire clearly raised and sharp. " _This_ was what you couldn't tell me? This doesn't make any sense!"

Suddenly, Sherlock tilts his head. "Chief Superintendent… Dr. Kardon is your main suspect, is she not?" Elisabeth blanches, and then pales further when Lestrade's expression only becomes grim without a hint of denial. Donovan is whipping her head back and forth between the three other occupants of the lab, jaw slack and eyes wide as the situation takes several turns she obviously was not expecting with information she clearly was not meant to know.

"M-me?" Dr. Kardon sputters. "This doesn't read like an accusation! It's _devotion_ , blind obsession. _Taunting_ , even!"

Sherlock nods, still smirking. "Clearly a stalker."

"Exactly! Greg, you know I'd never—!"

" _Of course I bloody know_. I was supposed to take you in to the Yard, but I made a different call."

Donovan, finally finding her voice, manages to squeak out, "Sir, it's the _Chief Superintendent_ , you can't just _make a different call_!"

"Right," Sherlock sneers. "Because you happen to be the epitome of _by the book morality_ , Sergeant." The woman doesn't even send him a look back, either deciding not to dignify the man with one or lost in her own incredulity—which one is difficult to tell.

Elisabeth brings a hand up to her hair, running her fingers through the strands and beginning to pace. A nervous habit, Sherlock thinks, or perhaps a way of expending her clearly building anxiety. Lestrade shoots the agitated woman a pleading look that she doesn't see, lost in her thoughts enough not to care. "Elisabeth, _please_ , if you know _anything_ that might help…"

Dark eyes dart around the room, hand slowing in its raking motions for a beat before sliding down to pinch the bridge of her nose. Breathing out slowly, Sherlock watches the professor's back straighten, resignation and a little indignation behind the motion. The consulting detective could tell Lestrade the moment he laid eyes on her that the woman knows nothing more about the crime than is apparent from the scene. Innocent, as it were. Her confusion is quite genuine. As he said, the woman clearly has a stalker.

" _I don't_ , Greg." Sighing, Elisabeth brushes past Sherlock to the table in the middle of the room, eyeing the frosted glass figure critically. The others join her as she examines without touching. "At least not about why my name would have been left here. This has to mean something, the figure. This is of a saint, I think…" The figure was intricately carved, perhaps six inches in height and situated on a round, glass base. It was of a priest, the form of a child lain at his feet and a scepter topped with a rose in his hand, circle carved 'round his head. He appeared to be blessing the child, hand raised and a bit outstretched, serene look etched onto his face.

Sherlock snorts suddenly. "I believe it is ironically a figure of Saint Valentine." Elisabeth blinks up at him.

"Today is February 14th—you're kidding. That's not coincidental…"

Donovan is deadpan. "Why _Saint Valentine_? What's so special about him?" Her gloved hand reaches out to snatch up the figure, no doubt to get a better look. However, upon disturbing it, a click startles into place not from the figurine, but from a previously sleeping computer off in the corner of the room. A beat later heralds a whirring noise, and Elisabeth looks up just in time to see one of the indicator strips on one of the air vents change from a gentle flow to gusting.

"Oh god," she whimpers, drawing the others' attention to the object of her fixation.

They all realize the severity of the situation in that moment though for different reasons. Four sets of wide, dumbfounded eyes peer at the now whirring vent in varying states of awe, curiosity, terror, and shock before Elisabeth suddenly, with a surge of adrenaline and recognition, bolts from the table towards the door. Lestrade cries out her name in shock, perhaps thinking she is trying to escape the room though that is not the case. Her eyes lock onto a switch she'd noticed upon entering the lab, a biohazard symbol impressed in stark white against the bright orange-red, and her hand slams against it.

From beyond the now sealed door of glass as emergency lights begin flashing a warning of a released biological contagion, Elisabeth's frantic eyes meet the startled ones of a Dr. John Watson just poised to enter the freshly inaccessible lab.

Several feet away, Sherlock looks at her with Lestrade and Donovan, considering expression upon his face. "This isn't someone trying to lead you on a chase…" It's absently mumbled, but the woman hears it regardless and turns slowly from where she'd been having an impromptu, shock-borne staring contest with the man's partner.

Swallowing, her face falls grimly. A dark-haired head shakes sluggishly from side to side. She inhales a shuddering breath. "No. This…this was a _trap_." Elisabeth's eyes fix on Lestrade suddenly, becoming harsher than Sherlock would have thought them capable. "I can't believe…"

"W-what are you—?!"

"First rules of dealing with objects in an unknown, suspicious biolaboratory setting: Don't fucking _touch anything_ without proper hazmat precautions and do _proper checks_ of all equipment." Her voice is cold, and Donovan and Lestrade's eyes seem to grow wider, if that's even possible. "Unknowing or not, your oversight just exposed everyone in here to an unknown pathogen and put us all on emergency quarantine. Congratulations, Sergeant." In the crawling, digestive silence that follows, Sherlock can't help but think that the woman took the thought directly out of his mouth.

Eventually, Lestrade succinctly mumbles the one word that sums up their current situation quite aptly.

"…Fuck…"

* * *

 _ **Final Words:**_ Let me know what you think! I personally don't care much for the pacing, but I rewrote this chapter three times and extensively edited it five, so eventually I ran out of steam and decided to go with the best incarnation.

R&R!  
~Sneak


	2. Crawling

_**Tick Tock  
By:**_ SneakAttack29

* * *

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Sherlock. All rights go to their respective people - I only own any OCs that crop up during the duration of this fic.

 _ **Quick Author's Note:**_ Sorry, kind of a short chapter. Need to get a bit of technical stuff out of the way before we get to the good bits. As always, if I screw up too badly trying to explain something, please correct me!

Enjoy!

* * *

 _ **Chapter 2:**_ Crawling

* * *

" _All alone he turns to stone while holding his breath half to death.  
Terrified of what's inside.  
To save his life, he crawls like a worm from a bird._"

-The Used, "The Bird and the Worm"

* * *

 _ **Day 1—23:39**_

* * *

 **Utter chaos** —that's truthfully the only way Elisabeth can describe it.

Of course, she's pretty sure that it seems worse in hindsight than it really is, but the situation notwithstanding is excruciatingly, undeniably dire. Lestrade, during the rather tricky maneuvering to carefully transfer them all to a facility containing an emergency quarantine _without_ exposing them to other people, had confided that the hazmat team _did_ find samples of… _something_ , labels meticulously and suspiciously absent. The suspected agent, but there wasn't a chance for word on what, exactly, the substance actually is. He admitted to the three of them that it had been found in the hot lab, under containment, and such was met with disapproving anxiety from Elisabeth, condescending scoffing from Sherlock, and wide-eyed, terrified incredulity from Donovan. Not that any other responses should have been expected. It's an aerosolized pathogen of some kind, the same that had been waiting on a trigger behind the air vent to be released at the leisure of an untraceable, remote switch. They'd walked right into a trap and had nothing but fear-fueled incompetence to thank. To say that Elisabeth teeters precariously on the verge of crying tears of pure frustration would be a vast and gross understatement.

The quarantine was facilitated by emergency personnel experienced with contagious diseases and biological hazards, though Elisabeth is afraid of the very real possibility that the medical men and women have never seen anything quite like that to which they've likely been exposed. She's also concerned by the very fact that they've never had to deal with as petulant a patient as Sherlock Holmes. The man whined and put up an impressive fight at having to leave the lab, something he obviously did not want to do. His argument consisted of the claim that he was already infected, so he was the perfect candidate to continue investigating the space. It was quickly shot down, but the fact that he tried at all gave Elisabeth a whole new level of exasperation with the man. She's fairly certain now that someone at some point during this whole ordeal is going to have to stop her from strangling him out of sheer annoyance. It clearly takes a special kind of patience to deal with Sherlock Holmes. How Dr. Watson and Greg do it, she can't fathom.

The quarantine "cell", for lack of a better term, amounts to an emergency clean room lined with six ordinary hospital beds in rows along opposite walls. For all intents and purposes, it's a small, pressurized, Plexiglass box of a room within another sealed room, behind several doors and wash stations for that extra safety measure. It's sealed entirely through a handful of airlocks, though there are entry points and intercoms for careful, regulated contact with the outside world if the need should arise. It's essentially the quarantine version of the BSL-4 lab complex the four of them had been standing outside the true entrance of when this whole mess started. There's a boxed off area in the back as a shared bathroom that Elisabeth is not too keen on, but there's privacy and she'll gladly take what she can get at the moment. Everyone else seems to be in silent agreement with this. Even Sherlock, beneath his whining and stomping and complaining, isn't pushing too much.

They've not been allowed any suited visitors to loiter outside their sterile, mostly translucent box, though the professor suspects that has something to do with the ever-continuing string of doctors and nurses parading in and out of the room in clean suits of their own, taking blood and other various samples for tests, meticulously checking temperatures and vitals as if whatever was released in the lab is going to cause them to rapidly begin showing symptoms. Elisabeth knows it's precautionary, but that doesn't stop her and Sherlock from repeatedly complaining about the prodding that is verging on being a tad too much. None of the four of them have been able to eat yet, and more than anything, everyone just wants to sleep. Well, all save Sherlock who appears completely unperturbed by the lack of basic necessities. Between medical staff barging unceremoniously into their _cell_ , he seems to be either chained to his bed still as the dead or pacing agitatedly between cots and rows in equal measure. She caught a mutter of "thinking" on his lips, but the specifics of his temper tantrums are lost to her through the veneer of irritation and exhaustion hanging over her eyes.

At current, Elisabeth's reclined back on the bed in the back corner and across the row from Sherlock that she'd quickly claimed as her own (to the consulting detective's antisocial displeasure, something she was endlessly amused over). A needle is stuck into the crook of her elbow, yet another tube collecting a steady stream of her blood attached on the other end. The nurse, a kindly woman nearing the end of middle age named Shelly, is covered head to toe in protective scrubs, masks, gloves—the works. Elisabeth wants to grimace, but the caution is warranted.

"This'll be the last one tonight, promise," reassures the nurse, strained smile visible even beneath the facemask she's wearing. "Final round of tests, then we'll get you all something to eat."

Elisabeth huffs a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Did someone mention food?" Lestrade calls from his bed adjacent and two down from Elisabeth's, next to the wall closest to the entrance to the box. The joking grin belies the contradictory story his comically wide eyes tell, and the professor cracks an involuntary smirk at the sight. The DI mimics it a second later, proving that it had been his intention all along.

"No!" She calls across the room. "Just your imagination. Going deaf in your old age, Greg?"

He chuckles, strained. "Piss off, Kardon!"

"Oh, both of you, shut up!" The baritone cuts sharply through the already tense atmosphere, adding another layer of discomfort all its own and causing poor Shelly to jump. This, in turn, causes the needle in Elisabeth's arm to be jolted, and the professor hisses at the feeling of the vein being blown from the movement, sending the fiercest glower she can conjure to the source of the voice. Where one Sherlock Holmes had been reclined on his own secluded bed across the aisle from Elisabeth's and thankfully going through a quiet stage, he was now bolted upright and sending a scowl of his own at the two who had been talking. Donovan sneers at him from where she'd planted herself as far away from him as possible, two beds down the same row as Elisabeth and also next to the door, but she goes unheeded. The Sergeant was unusually subdued from what Elisabeth's gathered, but she supposes the weight and fear of the situation can be attributed to that. She can't quite blame the woman.

"Why?" Elisabeth snarls, partly from pain, partly because the man is getting on her nerves, and also partly because the wash of guilt over Shelly's face as she quickly does what she can for the professor's arm raises her own. She's grown to like the kindly nurse covered head to toe in shades of blue. "It's not like any of us are trying to sleep or will be sleeping anytime soon. This is all bloody terrible! But there's no sense brooding in a goddamn corner and acting like an inconsiderate ass over something that can't be changed, now is there?" Ice eyes become even colder, the scowl deepens, and the professor suddenly gets the odd feeling she may just be playing with fire under all that stoic frigidity.

It appears the silent accord they struck in the lab only extends so far, and it decidedly does not cover cordiality outside of mystery-solving. Good to know. "If you wish to confuse thinking with… _brooding_ ," the word causes a sneer to pass his face and leave just as quickly as it appeared, "then you're far more dimwitted than I initially assumed."

The woman scoffs before replying in a faux cheerful tone, "Well, then, Mr. Holmes, you ought to know not to assume. Makes an ass out of you and me, after all."

" _Quaint_ ," he drawls in unimpressed response, face falling blank. Donovan sniggers from her corner, earning her a glare, but no one gets a chance to comment before poor Shelly clears her throat.

"I've got to get these to the lab, now. I'll inform staff that you'll be needing food and it shall be up shortly. And sorry about the vein, dear. Honest mistake, really."

Elisabeth grins brightly. "It's alright! I completely understand—it's not your fault _in the least_. And, actually…if it's not too much trouble, do you think it would be possible for me to get something to write with? I'd kill for a whiteboard right about now, but paper will do just as well." An awkward, uncomfortable smile is the nurse's response before she collects her samples and equipment and scurries out of the room. As soon as her back is turned, Elisabeth can't help the sympathetic wince.

"Why d'you need something to write with?" Donovan questions from her perch. She's dressed in the blue scrubs like the rest of them had been forced into and is perhaps the only one of the four of them to not be paler than the fabric. Still, while she's lucky in that the clothing doesn't drain her pallor, it seems exhaustion and stress are doing the job instead. She's sideways on her claimed bed, facing them all with her legs crossed in front of her. Her posture is hunched a little, and while Elisabeth hadn't been getting the best of vibes from the woman, she can't help but soften a little towards her in sympathy.

The professor smiles. "Because I've got a few things rattling around in my head. I just want to write them down, try to organize them better. It seems Mr. Holmes is not the only one who has been doing some thinking." She taps her temple for emphasis.

"You're…," Sergeant Donovan blinks, "thinking? About the lab?"

On his bed, the consulting detective throws his hands up in exasperation. "Yes, Sergeant, _thinking_. I know that is a difficult concept for you to struggle your mind around, but you clearly have ears. And she's obviously thinking about the case."

Sally glares harshly, "I don't recall anyone asking your—"

" _Alright!_ " cuts Lestrade. "Alright, already! All of you, take a goddamn breath!"

Sherlock clearly ignores the detective, continuing to prattle on as if he'd not been interrupted to begin with. "It's a pointless endeavor on which to waste whatever meager brainpower she has, anyway. No one in an official capacity would let Dr. Kardon be involved in this case—she's clearly the one being toyed with, just look at that note. They don't let suspects work on cases."

Elisabeth scoffs. " _Or victims_ , if you'll recall. Though, at this point, they might as well. We're no good in here waiting to be effective lab rats and then to either walk out perfectly fine or die horribly." Donovan squeaks an indignant exclamation from her corner when Elisabeth cackles dryl\ at some joke to which only she is aware.

"Great, I was wrong—you're probably just as bad as _he_ is!" The professor rolls her eyes at the accusation.

"Oh, come off it. Stop acting like you've never heard gallows humor before. Besides that, we were exposed to some unknown, deliberately unidentifiable, aerosolized, presumably biological agent whilst standing outside the entrance to a BSL-4 laboratory in a government ghost lab that doesn't technically exist. Do you really think that the chances point to that being something like the common cold? I've mulled over about seventeen things it could be, and none of them are necessarily _harmless_ , Sergeant Donovan."

Lestrade interrupts the glaring contest seeming to pass between the two women, pinching the bridge of his nose. "BSL-4?"

"Biosafety level 4," Sherlock drones, almost sounding _bored_ , before Elisabeth can even open her mouth to answer the inspector. "They're highly secure laboratories. Highest level of precautions taken, and they handle easily-communicable, severe and fatal human diseases. The name ought to have given it away, it's rather obvious. Now if you lot are _quite_ finished…"

"It's also called a P4 lab, for shorthand, typically referring to pathogen or protection level. They're mazes, effectively," the professor mutters with her scowl swiveling to Sherlock and pressing on despite his drawn-out sigh of suffering. "Mazes of rooms, chemical showers, _normal_ showers, airlocks, disinfectant tanks, ultraviolet lights, filtration systems, and the actual labs and storage rooms housing all sorts of nasty pathogens like _Bacillus anthracis_ and _Clostridium botulinum_. There are officially nine P4 laboratories in the United Kingdom. Three are in Greater London, another three are in Surrey, two in Wiltshire, and one in Hertfordshire. The Francis Crick Institute in Camden, however, only has the laboratory capacity—they don't officially work with human pathogens, let alone anything warranting a level 4. The Health Protection Agency's Centre for Infections in London and the Centre for Emergency Preparedness and Response in Wiltshire are both part of the European Network of Biosafety-Level-4 Laboratories and focus on diagnostics research for highly virulent diseases. However, it's the Defense Science and Technology Laboratory in Wiltshire that focuses on biological weapons and biodefense. At least officially."

Lestrade's brows rise to his hairline, and he parrots, "' _At least officially_ '?"

"Well, we were obviously at an _un_ official P4 lab, weren't we? That building is definitely not in Greater London, Wiltshire, Surrey, or Hertfordshire—we were in Kent, south of Sevenoaks. Like myself and Mr. Holmes stated, the place was clearly military. Military testing of biological pathogens isn't unheard of or necessarily alarming—USAMIIRID in Maryland is a good example; it's part of Fort Dietrich. Has U.S. Army in the name. I can only think of two reasons why a governmental facility containing at least one P4 lab exists off the radar. Neither of them are particularly cheerful."

Donovan stiffens and narrows her dark eyes suspiciously at Elisabeth. "How do you even bloody know it's a P4 if we didn't actually go in any lab? No one told you." The other woman's hands slide over her face, clearly out of exhaustion if the way her expression comes away drawn is any indication.

"I've been in one before, once. Quick tour through courtesy of the university after completing a research project for the institution we were partnered with. Had to kick, fight, and scratch for it, though. You can't really miss the stench of _that much Lysol_ —in order to get out of a level 4 you have to take a rinse in the stuff, and not even a freshly-scrubbed lab is going to smell like disinfectant quite that strongly." She grimaces at the thought.

Greg laughs a little, humorlessly. "It didn't smell _that_ bad, Ellie."

" _Elisabeth_ ," she corrects with a snap. "And yes, to me, it did. Forgive my sense of smell for being a tad sensitive, yeah? Besides, it wasn't like it took rocket science to figure out it's a P4, anyway." Crickets practically chirp.

A few more seconds drag on before Sherlock groans as if the whole situation is physically paining him. Elisabeth is fairly certain that the consulting detective at least _believes_ it actually is. "It said so on a plaque next to the door, not to mention all the biohazard signs scattered about—as she said, ' _not rocket_ science'. Now, _shut up_ , all of you! Your senseless blathering is distracting me."

Elisabeth smiles sweetly, though her eyebrow twitching belies her anger. "What's the magic word, then?" All she receives is a nasty glare for her efforts, but it doesn't diminish her sarcastic grin whatsoever.

"For your sake, I hope you remember it," she continues once it's made apparent that the man across the aisle from her isn't going to do much more at her words than pout like a child, "lest all our _senseless blathering_ give you too much of an earache."

Sherlock Holmes does not take condescending words nearly as well as he dishes them, and his eyes sharpen razor-quick. "Yes, well, I hope for all our sakes, _Dr. Kardon_ , that you find some way to get past your rather annoying and suffocating levels of claustrophobia before you nag all of us out of our wits. By your own admission we're going to be here a while, so I'd suggest you make that your top priority before subjecting everyone to your Wikipedia-level explanations!"

" _Wikipedia-level explanations!?_ " Elisabeth screeches, dumbfounded and incensed at how easily her discomfort with the confined space was able to be discerned. Her back straightens in a flustered sense of rage, cheeks tinging pink from the full-body effort not to lunge across the room and throttle the consulting detective to within an inch of his life. The sound of the airlocks whirring to signal someone entering the clean room, most likely to bring their food, doesn't even deter her from contemplating a nice, violent homicide. "Excuse the ever-lovin' _hell_ outta' me?! Oh, why I oughtta'—!"

"You ought to sit calmly, Dr. Kardon. You as well, Mr. Holmes."

At the new, silky voice slicing quite effectively through the room, the two heads that weren't already staring at the newcomer whipped in that direction. As per usual with clean rooms, their visitor is decked head to toe in blue protective equipment like all the medical professionals that have been parading through the quarantine cell, but Elisabeth gets a nagging feeling the caramel-skinned woman is anything but a doctor if the startled looks Lestrade and Donovan are shooting her are any indication. Fringed, dark eyes sit intelligently over the surgical mask she's forced by protocol to wear over her face, and black eyebrows belie the color of her hair that is tied up and hidden away behind a scrub cap. She's standing just past one of the ultraviolet lights above the inner door, a total of four beds down from where Elisabeth's is nestled in the back corner, and this woman's arms are crossed with authority. _Stern_ is the first word that comes to mind, and the professor supposes it may be secondary to _intimidating_ on that of the two meek nurses who scurry in behind the new figure with food trays.

Lestrade winces, averting his gaze when the woman's own sweeps over him and Donovan disdainfully, and he rubs the back of his neck. His muttering does not go unnoticed by either Sherlock or Elisabeth, though they don't catch the precise words. It appears to be a greeting of some kind, however, from the reaction it garners.

"Inspector, Sergeant" the woman acknowledges coolly before turning back to the professor and consulting detective. She nods in lieu of striding forward for a handshake for admittedly obvious reasons. Elisabeth admits to herself that in her shoes, she wouldn't be wanting to shake her own hand, either. "Dr. Kardon and Mr. Holmes, I'm to presume?" Her accent is crisp, quick, and to the point. No signs of exhaustion tinge it despite the hour.

Sherlock stubbornly refuses to answer, but Elisabeth gives a cautious squeak of, "Yes?"

Dark eyes meet dark eyes, and Elisabeth feels her heart drop into her stomach. "I'm Chief Superintendent Rishima Elyounoussi with Scotland Yard." Suspect, that's right. Lestrade had said they thought her a suspect—a ridiculous notion, but one she certainly has no clout with which to argue against. And Lestrade…he'd defied orders, hadn't he? A gulp runs subtly down the professor's throat, one Elyounoussi notices. The superintendent's head tilts curiously to the side.

"Dr. Kardon, while I apologize for the situation in which Inspector Lestrade's… _oversight_ has landed you, I'm afraid I have to inquire if you'll agree to a few questions here considering the circumstances. It seems our little _debacle_ has become a tad bit more serious, hasn't it?" Elisabeth can't tell if Elyounoussi is smug or considering. Neither feels like a winning option.

Eyes wide in true apprehension this time, she rasps, "How serious?" She's fixed with a look. A _commanding_ look, actually. One that demands no shenanigans or gallows humor. Not that Elisabeth thinks she could manage that if she tried with this turn of events.

" _National security_ serious."

"…oh…" The gulp makes a return appearance. "In…in that case, Superintendent. Ask away."

Elyounoussi nods, as prim and professional as one can get when in medical protective gear. She moves to sit on the bed next to Elisabeth's just as a nurse is setting down the quarantined woman's food tray. "I am glad you see the urgency. Shall we get started, then?"

* * *

 ** _Final Words:_** So, there we have it. Hope Elyounoussi doesn't seem too tacked-on - it feels flat to me, but I'll let you guys decide. I am my worst critic, so I leave judgement to others.

 **USAMRIID:** US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases - located in Fort Detrick, Maryland. The army-run research institute focuses on biological threats posed to the U.S. military. They were a key responder during the Amerithrax attacks in October-November 2001.


End file.
